Captive Trail

by Susan Page Davis

  “That’s true.” Ned thought about it as he sipped his coffee. “Reece, you know a little of their lingo, don’t you?”

  “Not much. Whatcha got?”

  “Tah-bay-wy-poo,” Ned said carefully.

  “Waipu is woman.” Reece’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Taabe. I’ve heard that before. Sun, maybe?”

  “Sun woman?” That didn’t make a lot of sense to Ned.

  Reece shrugged. “Ask somebody else. It’s been a long time since I had any dealings with the Comanche—and I’m not sorry about that. Hey, I remember a couple of years back, a girl was stolen not far from here.”

  Ned nodded. “Sally Cunningham. Her parents went to take a look at the girl today. She’s not Sally.”

  “Too bad.”

  Patrillo frowned as though trying to pry an elusive nugget from his memory. “There were some kids taken near Fort Belknap years ago …”

  “Boys,” Brownie said.

  “Wasn’t there a girl too?”

  Brownie shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Patrillo picked up his mug. “There’s always Cynthia Ann Parker.”

  “No, she’d be too old.” Since he arrived in Texas, Ned had heard the stories about one of the state’s earliest and certainly the most famous captive. The girl’s family had searched for her for nearly two decades now. “She’d be nearly thirty, wouldn’t she?”

  “I suppose,” Patrillo said. “But you say this woman was bruised up, so maybe she’s that old and you couldn’t tell.”

  “No.” Ned thought of Taabe Waipu’s face and his impression of youth—and fear. “She’s a girl, but in her teens at least.”

  “I put her between fifteen and twenty-five,” Brownie said.

  While Ned was grateful for his support, Brownie had seen her only from his perch on the driver’s box, while she was unconscious. Today he’d waited outside with the stagecoach while Ned went into the mission with the Cunninghams.

  “Probably twenty or younger,” Ned said.

  “Ah.” Patrillo spread his hands. “Maybe you should send inquiries. Who takes charge of searching for these captives?”

  “The governor, maybe?” Ned said. “I suppose the captain will send some letters.”

  Reece shoved back his chair. “I’d best be getting home before dark. Say, I recall there was a little girl taken ten years or so ago down around Victoria.”

  “We should make a list,” Ned said. “We got any paper?”

  Patrillo stood. “I’ll find something. Maybe if we get some names, you can ask her the next time you go by there. She might recognize one of them.”

  “I’ll go check on the livestock,” Brownie said. “See you at supper.” He and Reece ambled out the front door together.

  Quinta came in from the kitchen, scowling and carrying a stack of thick ironstone plates. “Papa, Benito says I have to do the dishes all by myself tonight.”

  “Why is that?” Patrillo asked.

  “He says I should have come sooner to help him cook. I only waited a minute, Papa.”

  Patrillo tweaked one of her long, dark braids. “I’ll see about it. Do a good job on the table, now.”

  She set out plates for her father, Ned, her four brothers, herself, and Brownie. Flatware and cups followed. She looked at her father for approval, and he nodded.

  When she had gone back into the kitchen, Patrillo asked, “Did the nuns say anything about opening a school?”

  “Not to me. We had other things to think about.”

  “Some days I think Quinta needs a female influence.”

  Ned laughed. “Well, Tree, you could get married again.”

  “Who would marry a man with five so rambunctious children?” Patrillo laughed but then grew sober. “She can read, but not too well. Her mother taught all the boys, but I haven’t done so well.”

  “You haven’t done so badly.”

  “Ha! She follows her brothers about all day, she dresses like a boy, and she risks her neck to prove she’s worthy to be with them.” Patrillo shook his head. “I’ve spoken to the boys about it many times. They assure me they don’t egg her on to do these things, but still she persists. She must ride a half-grown steer, or walk a fence rail, or try to throw a calf as big as she is.”

  Ned rose and patted him on the shoulder as he headed for the door. “Quinta’s a fine little señorita. Some day she’ll start wanting to act like a lady. Don’t fret about that one.”

  “What do you know? You have no children. Maybe the nuns would be a calming influence.”

  “I can’t—”

  Ned broke off as Quinta burst through the kitchen door, screaming in Spanish. She spoke so rapidly, he couldn’t quite follow, but he caught the word “school” and the refrain she repeated after each few phrases in her ranting—“How could you, Papa?”

  Ned ducked out the door and retreated to his small room at the back of the ranch house.

  Taabe sat on the edge of the chair, afraid to move. She watched the four women for cues as to what they expected. Three of them, including Natalie and Adele, sat at the table too. The fourth, whom they called Sister Marie, arranged dishes of hot food.

  They all were called “sister.” Adele had gotten this across to Taabe after her traumatic bath, while she combed out Taabe’s wild nest of hair. “Sister” appeared to be some sort of title. Or perhaps it simply meant “woman,” but they didn’t call her “Sister Taabe.”

  She was glad they had let her have her own clothing back, though the leggings seemed stiff, and she wondered if they had washed them. It would take her many hours to work them soft again. Her foot was too swollen to fit into her tall moccasins, and Adele had brought her some loose, knitted stockings to pull on over the bandages.

  Sister Adele, the youngest, sat beside her and sent her frequent smiles of encouragement. When Sister Marie had sat down, all the sisters clasped their hands, lowered their chins, and closed their eyes. All but Adele. She smiled at Taabe and held up her clasped hands.

  Taabe put her hands together as Adele was doing. The sister smiled and nodded. Then she bowed her head and closed her eyes, then peeked at Taabe as if to see if she was copying her.

  Taabe looked around. Sister Natalie, at the end of the table, was watching through slits of eyes. The other two waited like statues, hands clasped, eyes shut.

  Cautiously, Taabe lowered her head and closed her eyes. Were they waiting for something?

  Sister Natalie began to speak. Taabe’s eyelids flew open, and she gazed at her. The others sat motionless. After Sister Natalie had spoken for a short time, they all said “amen”—at the same moment. How did they know when to speak?

  The four women in black were all looking at her. Marie laughed and said something to the one whose name Taabe didn’t know. They both smiled and reached for the food dishes. Taabe wished she understood. Maybe they were making fun of her.

  She watched as they scooped portions of food onto their plates. Adele held out a dish of cooked beans to her. Taabe pointed to the food and spoke the Comanche word for beans.

  Adele’s eyebrows rose. The other sisters fell silent and stared at them.

  Was it wrong for her to speak?

  No, Adele’s eyes held an eager spark.

  Taabe repeated the word and pointed to the dish.

  “Beans,” Adele said. “These are beans.”

  “Beans,” Taabe said softly.

  Adele smiled at her. “Yes. Would you care for some beans, Taabe Waipu?” She nodded toward the spoon handle protruding from the dish. Taabe took it and carefully spooned a portion of beans onto her plate.

  By the time the meal was over, she had learned the words for water and bread, or at least she believed she had. The word Adele spoke when she indicated the crumbly yellow bread might be corn, or some word for that type of bread. But it was a name, and Taabe could ask for the yellow bread now if she wished.

  Adele and Marie helped her back to her room. She hopped along, holding them both by the shoulders. The
y wanted to carry her, but Taabe insisted on supplying some of the power. She wanted to regain her strength quickly—ironic, since the effort made her fall exhausted onto the narrow bed.

  Adele tucked her in, then reached down and removed something from beneath the bed. Taabe stared and reached out for it. Her parfleche. She opened it and felt inside. All her things were there, even the split water skin.

  She smiled at Adele and nodded. Adele smiled and went out, closing the door behind her.

  Taabe lay in the dim room with her hand inside the bag, touching the soft doeskin pouch of beads her sister, Pia, had given her. The odd, muffled sound she had heard once before reached her. The sisters were singing. She wrapped her fingers around the little flute in her parfleche. When she was stronger, perhaps she could sit up and play it.

  How long would she be here with these women? They were kind to her. Once her ankle healed, would they help her find her true people?

  She closed her eyes and listened to the cadence of their song.

  A man wanted to see her. That much Taabe understood. Was it the man who had come before, bringing the woman who cried and her husband? She hoped it was him—the tall, handsome man for whom she felt a connection. She had no way to ask the sisters.

  Perhaps it would be another white man looking to see if she belonged to his family. She understood that now—the couple who had come a few days ago hoped she was the daughter they’d lost to the Numinu. More people might come—the Numinu kept numerous Texans and Mexicans among their bands. Some were slaves and treated as such. Others were accepted as family members, as she had been. After some time, when they had proven they would not run away, these were given the same privileges and freedoms as native members of the people.

  Taabe curled her lip at the thought. For many seasons, many years, she had stayed with the Numinu—stayed until she remembered little of her other life. Only fading glimpses came to her now. But always she had kept in her heart the knowledge that she didn’t truly belong with the Numinu. The crumpled paper in her parfleche was a thread that bound her to the world of the whites. She’d hidden it for a long time, afraid one of her captors would take it from her. The markings on it had meaning, but she could not remember what. Long ago … as a child, she had been able to look at it and tell what it meant. And it was important. She knew that as surely as she knew the sun would rise again. But why it was important—that she had forgotten.

  The other children in the band told her she would hate it if she went back. White children were made to work hard and to stay inside where you could not feel the wind on your face. They were forced to wear constrictive clothing and eat foods not fit for man.

  She had been waiting what seemed a long time. Perhaps the visitor was not a white man. But no—if it were Peca or someone else from the Numinu, the sisters would be alarmed. And they would not know in advance.

  She sat on her bed and leaned against the wall, waiting. Sister Marie had combed her hair that morning. She hadn’t gone out to the eating room, as she was still weak and feverish. Sister Adele had brought her breakfast on a tray and wiped her face with cool water. The food the sisters served was plain, but they seemed to have plenty of it. For most meals here she got more than she would have in the Numinu village. After she had eaten and rested, Sister Adele returned and helped her put on her Comanche dress and told her a man was coming soon.

  The door opened and Taabe jumped. She sat up straighter and peered toward the opening.

  Sister Adele entered, smiling, and lit the lamp that now stayed on the small table by the pottery bowl and pitcher. Taabe loved the lamp, with its brightness and warmth. She understood the sisters’ mimed admonitions to be careful with it and never, ever, knock it over.

  But now she gave no thought to the lamp, except that its flame allowed her to see the tall man who entered behind Sister Adele.

  She caught her breath and clenched her hands into fists. She shouldn’t fear this man—she had returned to the world of the whites by her own will. Yet it was hard to ignore the reaction that had been drilled into her.

  The Numinu were courageous people. But if there was one thing they feared, it was the uniform of the long knives.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ned circled the stagecoach and stopped the team heading outward. He set the brake and looked over at Brownie.

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Better not be. The passengers are in a hurry.”

  Ned reached into the driver’s boot where he and Brownie kept their personal belongings—right next to the currently empty treasure box—and grabbed the bundle Patrillo had put together for the nuns. He climbed down, hurried to the door of the mission, and pulled the cord that rang a bell somewhere inside the adobe walls.

  Sister Natalie opened the door. She looked up at him with a restrained smile. “Mr. Bright. How nice to see you again.”

  “Hello, Sister.” Amazing how the title flowed from his lips so easily now. He felt a prick of conscience only if he mulled it over.

  “Have you brought more distraught parents seeking their children?”

  “Not this time.” Ned held out the bundle of clothing. “My partner at the station, Patrillo Garza, asked me to bring you this. It’s a dress and a few other things that belonged to his wife. For the girl.”

  “How kind of him. Thank you.” Sister Natalie took the bundle. “How is she doing?”

  Sister Natalie looked past him toward the stagecoach. “I don’t suppose you can come in for a moment.”

  “I’m not supposed to even stop. I’m sorry. Wish I could.”

  “She’s making progress. She’s still weak, and she had a fever for a few days, but that seems to be waning. She leaves her room for meals with us at least once a day now.”

  “That’s good. Does she understand anything you say?”

  “Not much.” Sister Natalie frowned. “We’ve tried English and French. I told the other sisters not to speak French to her anymore. We don’t want to confuse her. Learning—or relearning—one language will be difficult enough. But she is beginning to speak a few words.”

  “She’s cooperative, then?”

  “Oh, yes. She seems eager to be able to communicate. Yesterday the captain rode out from the fort. I think she was frightened of him at first, but I had Sister Adele bring a slate and help them converse with drawings as well as hand signs.”

  “That gives me hope. Did you learn anything?”

  “The captain brought a list of names that he read to her slowly—children who’d been captured over the last few years. But she didn’t show any signs of recognition. He says he’s written to the Indian agent at Fort Smith about her and asked for any clues about blue-eyed girls who’ve been taken.”

  “Good. I’ll speak to the captain myself this evening if I’m able. And if there’s time I’ll stop again Sunday. I’d best get going now.”

  “Hey!” One of the passengers was leaning out the door of the stage. “Are we going to Fort Chadbourne, or what?”

  Ned touched his hat brim. “Good-bye, Sister.” He sprinted for the stagecoach.

  “We brought you another parent who’s lost a child.” Ned nodded toward the man climbing out of the stagecoach on Sunday. “If he’s satisfied that Taabe Waipu is not his daughter, he’ll go with us to the home station and then on to Fort Belknap.”

  “So you’ll wait for him,” Sister Natalie said.

  “Yes. If she’s his daughter, he’ll stay.”

  The man wore a dark suit and had the look of a towns-man—a shopkeeper, perhaps. A presentable man who should not offer any trouble to the mission enclave.

  “Would you mind coming in with him, Mr. Bright?”

  “Not at all.”

  Ned entered the mission with the passenger—Joseph Henderson—and waited with him in the sitting room. Henderson paced, fidgeting with his hat. Ned hoped the sisters wouldn’t keep them long. He’d told Brownie ten minutes at most. He had no faith that he’d found Taabe’s father. For one thing,
Henderson had brown eyes. Ned hadn’t bothered to ask what his daughter, Miriam, looked like or how old she was. Everyone with a missing daughter wanted to see the girl, even if she didn’t meet their child’s description. No words could convince them until they had seen her.

  To Ned’s surprise, instead of returning to escort them to Taabe’s room, Sister Natalie and one of the other nuns—Sister Marie, he believed—came back with Taabe limping between them and leaning on their arms.

  She didn’t look up as she entered the room. The nuns led her to a stool, and she sat down.

  Ned caught his breath. What a difference the nuns had made!

  Taabe’s hair glinted in the shaft of sunlight from the window. In Elena Garza’s long lavender dress with black trim, she looked serene and elegant, though the dress hung loosely on her thin frame. Instead of shoes, her feet were encased in the tall, beaded moccasins he’d found her in. Her blue eyes appraised Henderson then focused on Ned, sending a wave of kinship through him. It was almost like meeting an old friend after a lengthy absence. He hoped she was glad to see him too.

  Ned smiled, and Taabe’s lips twitched, as though she wanted to respond. His heart surged.

  Henderson stepped toward her. “Good morning, young lady. May I ask your name?”

  Taabe swung her gaze back to him, but said nothing.

  “Shall we all sit down?” Sister Natalie said.

  Henderson frowned but took a seat. Sister Natalie sat near Taabe, and Sister Marie stood back, near the door. Ned watched Taabe, who sat quietly, her hands clasped on her lap, her back straight. A ray of sunshine still reached her, perhaps by Sister Natalie’s design, to illuminate her face for the visitor’s benefit. Her hair gleamed a lighter brown than he’d expected, no doubt thanks to the nuns’ patient care. The right side of her tanned face still bore some discoloration, but the swelling had abated, and he judged that she would be deemed pretty in any culture. She did not appear frightened this time, and barely curious. He wondered how many of these sessions she had undergone in five days.